Shotgun Grooms

by Susan Mallery

  She stared at him, not quite able to believe he was really here and speaking. “Lucas?”

  He took a step toward her. “Em, please. Don’t go. Please don’t go. You’re better than I deserve, but I can try to be a different man. I can improve. You’ll see. Just don’t leave.”

  She didn’t dare hope. Not yet. Still she rose to her feet and approached him. “I never wanted to leave. You’re the one who wanted a divorce.”

  “I know.” He took her hands in his and stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just so damn scared. About the past, about not being the man you want me to be. I don’t ever want to disappointment you. I love you.”

  Her heart stopped. Just plain stopped beating while Emily allowed those magical, wonderful words to sink into her being.

  “If you don’t want to disappointment me, then stop talking about getting a divorce.”

  He touched her face. “Can you ever forgive me? I love you, Em. For always. I’ll keep the saloon if you like. Or we can move to the ranch. I don’t care. I just want to be married to you for the rest of our lives.”

  She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. His lips clung to hers and she had the feeling that he might never let go. Some part of her sensed Dixie quietly leaving the room and closing the door behind her. Emily would thank her friend later. Not only for being discreet, but for talking some sense into the stubborn man she loved with all her being.

  “I love you, too,” she said, when he let her catch her breath.

  “You swear?”

  She laughed. “Yes. And despite my rather excellent speech before, I wasn’t really going to let you get away so easily.” She felt herself blushing. “It’s early to tell, but I think I might be having a baby.”

  Lucas stared at his wife. “You’re pregnant?”

  She flushed even more. “I’m increasing.”

  He lifted her in his arms and laughed. “Whatever word you want to use, there’s going to be a baby.”

  Lucas hugged his wife tightly to him, careful not to crush her. As she brushed his lips with hers, he felt the pure light of joy fill him. It was as if the hand of God had reached down and touched him.

  A new life. A baby. It was, he knew, finally proof of forgiveness.

  “Let go,” a voice seemed to whisper in his ear. “Live well, love well. Accept my bounty.”

  Lucas had never felt God’s grace on the battlefield with the dying or in his long nights of guilt and pain. But he felt it now, in the arms of his wife, as a tiny baby grew within her belly.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, then cupped Emily’s face in his hands. “I will love you forever,” he promised. “I will be a good husband and do everything within my power to make you happy.”

  “I believe you,” she said with perfect trust.

  True to his word, Lucas did as he promised and loved her well all the days of his long life.

  JACKSON’S MAIL-ORDER BRIDE

  Maureen Child

  Other novels available from MAUREEN CHILD:

  Silhouette Desire

  *The Last Santini Virgin #1312

  *The Next Santini Bride #1317

  *Marooned with a Marine #1325

  *Prince Charming in Dress Blues #1366

  *His Baby! #1377

  Chapter One

  “Jackson MacIntyre had better be sick,” Molly Malone MacIntyre muttered to no one. She held the wagon reins in her left hand while trying to push her hair out of her eyes with the right. She’d so wanted to make a good impression on her new husband. She’d purchased a new hat for her journey from Rocky Point, Massachusetts, to Defiance, Colorado. But now the darn thing was covered in trail dust that was quickly turning to mud, thanks to the steady rain that had started twenty minutes ago.

  Soaked to the skin, her long, copper-colored hair hung down on either side of her face, looking like molten pennies. Her green eyes narrowed against the pelting rain and she gritted her teeth as the wagon bounced over yet another canyonlike rut in the road. “If you could call it a road,” she said tightly. The clearing through the trees was little more than a beaten path, barely wide enough to allow her rented wagon to pass. Pine branches seemed to reach out for her, snagging at her shirtwaist and tugging at her hair.

  But the horse plodded on, no doubt dreaming of a warm stable and plenty to eat.

  “Avast,” a voice near her ear screeched, “dangerous waters ahead!”

  Molly sighed and flicked a quick glance at the red, green and yellow parrot perched on her shoulder. The ancient bird dipped its head and rolled its little eyes as if in sympathy. And she could use a little sympathy at the moment.

  This wasn’t at all how she’d imagined her arrival in Defiance.

  Six months ago, she’d been happily living in Massachusetts, a resigned spinster looking after her seafaring uncle’s home. But then the old pirate had died and Molly was on her own. A few weeks of silence and loneliness had been more than enough. Surrendering to the adventurous streak she’d no doubt inherited from her late uncle, Molly had answered an ad for a mail-order bride.

  After all, if she’d stayed in Rocky Point, she’d have died an old maid. The Civil War had claimed so many lives that women back East outnumbered the men almost four to one. And with those kinds of odds, a man could afford to be picky—and certainly wouldn’t be choosing a twenty-six-year-old hardheaded spinster when he could have a dewy-fresh, biddable child.

  So she’d accepted Jackson MacIntyre’s long-distance proposal, packed up her belongings in her uncle’s sea chest and set sail for adventure.

  “Awwwkkk…” the parrot called, shaking raindrops off its head, “Abandon ship!”

  “Safe harbor, Captain Blood,” she said, hoping to high heaven she was right. The old bird was her last link with her past. Though he was annoying and often profane, Molly refused to part with him. Since her childhood, Captain Blood had been the one friend she always could count on.

  And today, she’d needed him more than ever.

  During the days spent traveling on a train and then a stagecoach, Molly had clung to a fantasy of what her first meeting with her betrothed would be like. And at no time had she imagined the man wouldn’t even be there to meet her when she arrived!

  His brother, Lucas, and Lucas’s wife, Emily, newlyweds themselves, had met her stage and quickly scooted her off to the saloon where she’d spent the night in a small room upstairs. Then first thing this morning, she’d been whisked off to a tiny church where she was married by proxy of all things. Torn between fury and humiliation, Molly’d entertained herself with thoughts of what she would do to her new husband when—and if—he ever presented himself.

  Until, of course, Lucas had explained that Jackson was too sick to attend the wedding. Somewhat mollified, she’d declined Emily and Lucas’s offer to spend another night at their saloon-hotel before continuing up the mountain to her new home. She smiled to herself as she remembered Lucas trying to argue her out of her decision.

  “You can’t go up the mountain yourself, Molly,” he’d said. “You’ll never find Jackson’s place.”

  She smiled and lifted her chin slightly. If he’d known her better, he would have recognized the gesture as an indication of her stubbornness. “I managed to travel here from Massachusetts on my own,” she’d told him. “I’ve no doubt I can find the cabin. And if it gets dark, I’ll have the stars to guide me. My uncle taught me well how to navigate.”

  He had looked as if he wanted to argue, but his wife joined in on Molly’s side before he had a chance.

  “Lucas,” she said, “Molly is just as able to follow the path to Jackson’s cabin as a man would be.”

  “I didn’t say she wasn’t,” he argued, and it looked to Molly as though these newlyweds weren’t having an easy start to their marriage.

  “You implied it,” Emily had told him.

  “Now you read minds?” Lucas asked.

  “There’s a path?” Molly said, interrupting the flow of their argument. �
�Well then, there’s no problem a’tall, is there?”

  Lucas looked like a man caught between a rock and another rock. Clearly he and his wife had things to discuss, so Molly spoke up quickly. “If you’ll just be tellin’ me where to rent a buggy, I’ll be going to my new home.”

  And so here she was, Molly thought, halfway up a mountain in the wilds of Colorado. But what other choice had she? If her husband was sick, he needed her. And truth be told, she was anxious to start her new life and not eager at all to spend the night with newlyweds who looked to be having their first argument. Besides, her place was with Jackson MacIntyre now. Even if he did live at the back of beyond.

  She let her narrowed gaze drift across the rain-smeared countryside and couldn’t help wondering if there were animals out there, crouched in the damp shrubbery. Big animals, with lots of hair and sharp teeth, just waiting to take a bite out of an unwary traveler.

  She gripped the reins tighter, shook her sodden hair back behind her shoulders and urged the horse, “Hurry up then, let’s be about our business, shall we?”

  Rounding a curve in the muddy track, Molly spied a dim light in the surrounding gloom. A flicker of hope ignited in her heart. As the wagon rolled closer, jouncing and rocking along the pitted path, she kept her gaze fixed on that point of light and almost sighed with relief when she recognized it as lamplight shining through a window.

  “At last,” she muttered, giving the horse’s rump a little taste of the reins. Her stomach pitched nervously and her heartbeat quickened. Just another few moments and she’d be face-to-face with the man she’d married. She glanced down at the simple gold band on her left ring finger and remembered the look on Lucas’s handsome face when he’d placed it there, giving her his brother’s promise.

  And a small, very female part of her wondered if her new husband was as handsome as his brother.

  She pulled the horse to a stop in front of the cabin and took a good long look at her new home. With the dark and the rain, the place didn’t look very welcoming. In fact, she might have thought the place abandoned but for the light in the window and the laundry still hanging on a line and twisting in the wind. The scent of wood smoke reached her and just the thought of warming herself in front of a fire was enough to propel her off the bench seat. Clumsily lifting her wet dress out of her way, she stepped down from the wagon and squished through the mud to the front steps.

  Not a sound from inside the cabin. Either her new husband was stone deaf and hadn’t heard her approach, or the man couldn’t even be bothered to open his door to greet her. Of course, she told herself as she reached for the brass latch, there was another option, too. He just might be too sick to move. Hoping she wasn’t going to be a widow before she was a wife, in the truest sense of the word, Molly opened the door and stepped into a warm, completely disheveled room.

  In the light of a single oil lamp, she saw clothes scattered about the floor and across the few pieces of furniture. Dirty dishes lay on the rough plank table, and shadows thrown from the fire and the lamp danced across the walls.

  Water dripped off Molly’s coat and dress and hair, plopping against the wooden floor until she was standing dead center in a puddle. Stunned, she kept looking at the room as if expecting it to change suddenly and become a cozy little cottage. But of course nothing of the sort happened and, after a long minute or two, she gave up waiting and moved farther into the room.

  “Rocky shores,” Captain Blood screeched. “Rocky shores. Abandon ship!”

  Not paying attention to the bird, Molly took him from her shoulder and set him on a chair back where he paced to and fro like a short, feathered sentry.

  Well, she’d found her new home, but there was still the matter of her missing husband. Turning toward the door on the far side of the room, Molly crossed the floor, kicking shirts and heaven knows what else out of her way as she went.

  She opened the door and stood on the threshold, staring into the room dominated by a narrow bed—and the huge man stretched out in it.

  “Great heaven, he’s a giant,” Molly muttered. Even taller than his brother, Jackson MacIntyre’s broad, muscular, naked chest heaved up and down with each labored breath he drew. Drawn closer, Molly walked farther into the room and stared at the man to whom she’d promised her life. Thick black hair fell nearly to his shoulders and a full beard hid his features from sight. “You might be a troll under all that hair,” she whispered, then bent down to lay one hand across his brow. Dry heat sizzled up the length of her arm in response and she blew out a long breath as he twisted his head away from her touch.

  “Well then,” she said, standing up again, “I guess we’ll be getting the worse before the better in this marriage, eh?”

  Before she’d resigned herself to life as a spinster, Molly had dreamed, as all girls dream, of her wedding night. She’d imagined a husband besotted with her, showering her with kisses and gently leading her into the secrets of wedded bliss.

  Now she had the husband all right, but he was darn near unconscious. “There’ll be no bliss tonight, I’m thinkin’,” she said, and left the room to do what needed doing. “And no secrets,” she added, just a bit disappointed.

  An hour later, she had the rented horse fed and resting in the small stable alongside her husband’s big black animal. She’d dried off in front of the fire and dressed in one of her husband’s shirts, since all of her clothes were in the steamer trunk still sitting in the downpour in the back of the wagon. The long-sleeved wool shirt hung to her knees, leaving her legs bare, so Molly found a pair of socks and pulled them on, too.

  Taking a good hard look at herself, she chuckled and thought it was a good thing Jackson MacIntyre couldn’t see her now after all. She carried a bowl of water into the bedroom and, setting it down on a three-legged table, took a seat on the mattress beside her husband. Molly dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it out, then sponged Jackson’s forehead. He muttered something and turned his face into the cool touch of the fabric. She noticed a cut on his right cheek but couldn’t tell how deep or long it was, since it disappeared beneath the full beard he wore. Molly promised herself to look at the cut more closely later. But for now the important thing was to get his fever down.

  Again and again, she cooled off his heated flesh, swiping the damp cloth across his face, his neck, his chest, until she felt the fire in his body ease back a bit. And while she worked, Molly indulged her curiosity. After all, they were married and she’d likely never have this opportunity to study him unobserved again. Swallowing hard, she ran her palm across the hard, muscled plane of his chest. So strong. So…big. Her hand swept lower, nearing his abdomen. He groaned, from deep in his throat as she caressed his skin, and that sound encouraged her to explore even farther.

  Her cheeks flushed slightly, her breath hitching in her chest, Molly fed her curiosity and lifted the covers back to take a peek at the rest of his body. Her green eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open. “Oh, my!” Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she let the blankets fall back into place as if covering him now would keep the image of what she’d seen from her mind.

  Apparently, her new husband was a big man all over. Quickly her mind raced with all the information she’d ever collected about the marriage bed. Women were never eager to tell a virgin what to expect, but she wasn’t stupid and she had an idea of exactly what went on.

  And with that thought in mind, she rested one hand on his belly and lifted the blanket again for another look. As she studied him, her eyes went round as dinner plates.

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “That couldn’t possibly fit.”

  Then her husband’s hands came around her and pulled her down on top of him.

  Chapter Two

  “Mmm, darlin’…” he muttered, as his hands rubbed up and down her arms, then over and across her breasts.

  Tiny explosions of heat scattered through her like a shotgun blast. Her nipples hardened and a jumping sensation took root in the pit of her sto
mach. Her breath hitched. His big hands cupped her breasts and, even through the fabric of the shirt she wore, she felt the impression of each of his fingers. Damp heat pooled at her center and an ache throbbed deep inside her.

  He knew she was here, she thought. Even in his fever, a part of him realized that she, his wife, was here with him. She wondered if he knew just what he was doing to her. Molly sucked in a gulp of air and carefully eased back out of his reach. The man was sick. He needed his rest. And she needed a little time to get used to the feeling of a man putting his hands on her body. With another muttered sigh, he drifted back into a fevered sleep, his empty hands fisted at his sides.

  “My goodness,” she whispered, and fanned herself with one hand. If a simple touch could set off such reactions inside her, how in heaven would she feel when—“Oh, best not to think of that now,” she told herself aloud. Instead, she decided to concentrate on cleaning the cut on Jackson’s cheek.

  Now that his fever was easing back, she could afford a little time spent on caring for his wound. “If, that is, I can reach it,” she whispered, turning his face toward her and scowling at the beard covering her husband’s jaw. Was it laziness, she wondered, that made a man grow such a bush on his face? Or did he actually like the blasted thing?

  “Well,” she mused aloud, “the reasons don’t really matter, do they? Because to treat that cut, there’s only one thing to do.” Then she got up and left the room to search for what she needed.

  A half hour later, she was back at his side with a heated bowl of water, a rusty pair of scissors and a razor that obviously hadn’t been used in months. She’d sharpened it as best she could on the leather strop she’d found in a drawer, but now she eyed the edge of the blade and then considered Jackson’s beard. A beard the size of that one actually required the use of a cutlass, she thought with a half smile, but she would have to make do.